


in your eyes I see St. Peter wave

by peardita



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Darach - Freeform, Dubcon/Noncon Elements, Dubcon/Noncon Kissing, Dubious Consent, Kiss or Die, M/M, Magic - Freeform, Magic Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peardita/pseuds/peardita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>Finally</em>," a voice behind him says. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up. And while it would be no great loss for the world, I wouldn’t relish being handcuffed to your lifeless corpse.”</p><p>It’s an empty gesture, but still Stiles twists, glaring over his shoulder into the dark. He regrets the pull on his abused muscles almost instantly. “Yeah, well—” He coughs again, trying to get the scraped charcoal feeling out of his throat. "I was hoping you were some kind of hallucination. A waking nightmare, or something. So, the mutual hatred is still very mutual.”</p><p>[Edited Feb 2014 to fix some formatting errors]</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your eyes I see St. Peter wave

**Author's Note:**

> Very late fill for the [prompt](http://thecivilunrest.livejournal.com/13653.html?thread=92757#t92757): Harris/Stiles handcuffed together. Thank you to WitticasterCole for the beta, Febricant for cheerleading, and Calculus for being the best writing partner. I wouldn't have gotten this done without the three of you. This is my first finished Teen Wolf fanfic, so thanks to Rarepair November for actually giving me the motivation to get it done.
> 
> Additional warnings: Canon typical repeated use of ableist insults by Harris. Characters make joking/sarcastic comments that they would rather be dead. Hand amputation is mentioned but does not occur. Stiles panics but doesn't have a full panic attack.
> 
> See end notes for more detailed/spoilery explanation of dubcon/noncon elements.

Stiles squints at the three fine gold chains Lydia is holding, each bearing a small stoppered glass vial. “You ... want us to wear matching necklaces?”

“ _Please_.” She thrusts the chains forward imperiously, and Scott, Allison, and Stiles each quickly take one. “As if I would ever be caught wearing something that matched _you_.”

Allison examines the contents of her vial: an emulsion of unknown oils mixed with what might be herbs in a clear liquid. “You said they’re pendulums for a kind of—divination?”

Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder. “In the real world, divining rods and dowsing are pseudoscientific nonsense, no more useful for finding things than random chance. But—“ her mouth makes a moue of distaste, “With magic in the picture— _Stiles_!”

“What?” Stiles jerks the vial away from his nose, sheepish. “They look more like—wearable perfume thingies. Are we sure this is going to work?”

Lydia’s voice is sweet acid. “If you want to read through 900 pages of archaic Latin to find something better, be my guest.”

“Whoa, no, hey, I’m sure your translation is flawless, Lyds, and—I’m gonna shut up now.”

“Good.” Lydia turns back to Scott and Allison. “Now, according to the Bestiary, Druids—including dark Druids—need their power tied to specific physical locales. Some of those locations should be more vulnerable than others. These—“ she taps a nail on the vial she’s confiscated from Stiles, “should help us triangulate the location of the weakest spot.”

“And then we can strike.” Allison smiles tightly.

+

Deaton examines the vial Scott handed him. “Unfortunately, this is not a type of magic I have experience with,” he finally says, handing it back. “Which isn’t to say it won’t work, but—you have to assume there will be risks.”

“What, and the other stuff we’ve done was _safe_? Seriously?” Stiles scoffs. “Come on, this has to beat almost-stop-your-heart hypothermia trance ice baths.”

Scott ignores him. “More people will die, if we don’t figure out how to stop this,” he says to Deaton.

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t do it,” Deaton says. “Just be prepared that there may be unexpected, unintended consequences.”

Stiles squints. “How can you prepare for something you’re not expecting?”

Deaton sighs. “I wish I could offer you more help, I really do. But with what I know, all I can say is, be careful.”

Scott nods. “We will.”

Out in the Clinic’s parking lot, he surveys the other three. “What about—asking Derek for help?”

“With a magic ritual that came from my family’s Bestiary?” Allison shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“My magic, my rules,” Lydia says. “I don’t want—any of that pack involved.”

“Psh, yeah, we totally got this,” Stiles says. “Who needs them?”

+

Lydia and Allison are the first to find their spot, their pendulum hanging motionless, pointing straight down. “ _Naturally.”_ Lydia sounds pleased, but there’s an edge to her voice. _“Now hurry up you two, I want this finished before dark._ ”

She has Allison, and Allison’s compound crossbow and daggers. Scott has his claws. Stiles has one of Allison’s tasers. They’re all on a three-way call. The vague foreboding is just business as usual for life in Beacon Hills.

Stiles has his pendulum out in front of him in one hand, his phone in the other, so the taser is holstered. It wouldn’t be useful anyway against the current threat he faces: being jabbed by sticks. “You’re not the one whose pendulum is making them tromp through the thickest freaking underbrush in the preserve—“ He pauses to push a low hanging branch out of his face with his phone hand. “Are you sure you didn’t curse mine or something?”

_“To triangulate a location, we need points on three different sides, which means one of us—”_

“I do know how triangulation works, okay,” Stiles interrupts. “I just want to know why it always seems like—whoa, hey.”

 _“Stiles?”_ Scott sounds concerned.

“Nah, it’s cool.” Stiles scrambles faster, kicking dead leaves as he follows the tug of his gold chain. “I think I’m getting closer, make that a _lot_ closer, my vial thing is starting to pull really hard—“

 _“Our pendulum didn’t pull that strongly, it just lead us to one spot and then stopped—“_ Allison never worries as much as Scott, but she still sounds cautious.

Stiles grins even though they can’t see him. “ _Or,_ maybe all of you got the broken ones and mine is the one that works—haha, take that, suckers—“ He stumbles around a dense clump of trees and into a clearing, and then freezes.

“Aw, _crap_.”

 _“Stiles?!”_ Scott yells on the other end of the line, panicked, as Stiles turns to look over his shoulder. He can’t reply, because there’s a cloud of powder and he’s gone.

+

Stiles comes awake coughing, propped in an uncomfortable semi-upright sprawl on what feels like a dirt floor. It’s hard to tell much else, because he’s somewhere completely dark, but it smells earthy and damp. His arms are bound at a sharp angle behind him, the skin of his wrists chafed and raw. Even his shoes are missing.

It only gets worse from there.

" _Finally,_ " a voice behind him says. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up. While it would be no great loss for the world, I wouldn’t relish being handcuffed to your lifeless corpse.”

It’s an empty gesture, but still Stiles twists, glaring over his shoulder into the dark. He regrets the pull on his abused muscles almost instantly. “Yeah, well—” He coughs again, trying to get the scraped charcoal feeling out of his throat. "I was hoping you were some kind of hallucination. A waking nightmare, or something. So, the mutual hatred is still very mutual.”

Harris scoffs, the sound bitter. “I went to so much effort; to have it be ruined by _you_ of all people—being dead might actually be preferable.”

Stiles flashes his teeth, a quick, mirthless grin. “Don’t let me stop you; dreams can come true.” He starts to drag Harris’ wrists along, as his fingers move across the dirt floor beneath them, searching. “There’s gotta be a rock around here or something, that we could use—“

Harris jerks the cuffs, and Stiles yelps in pain. “All of the sacrifices I made—faking my own death to thwart the Darach, and my reward is to be trapped with a clumsy, savage, idiot child like you.”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “Why did my pendulum have to lead me to you? Why not Scott or Allison and Lydia? And—what do you mean, thwart the Darach? … How do you even _know_ what a Darach is anyway?”

Harris ignores the questions. “What did you morons even think you were doing? I would have hoped that Ms. Martin had some modicum of sense. Unless your and Mr. McCall’s joint stupidity has infected her in some incredibly unfortunate way.”

“It was Lydia’s idea in the first place,” Stiles snaps. “And every hair on her flawless, genius head is still flawless. And genius. And I’m sure it would have worked perfectly too, if you weren’t there to fuck it up—” Harris rattles the cuffs, and Stiles quickly and resentfully finishes: “We were trying to triangulate the physical location of the Darach’s weak point, okay?”

Harris takes a sharp breath. “You absolute moron, I _am_ the weak point! And you negated everything I had accomplished and led the Darach straight to me!”

“Okay, what the hell does that even mean?”

“I don’t expect you to be able to understand—Do you imbeciles at least know about the five sets of three sacrifices?”

Stiles nods, then realizes he can’t be seen. “Yeah.”

“Without me dead, the Darach doesn’t have a full set of warriors, and without the full fifteen sacrifices, the entire ritual will fail. They needed to _think_ I was in fact dead though, because if they knew I was still alive, they could just find a different warrior to sacrifice, and then the ritual could be completed.”

Stiles is silent for a long moment. “... Shit.”

“Eloquently put, Mr. Stilinski,” Harris says, voice full of scorn.  “Thanks to you, not only do they know I’m still alive, they’ve caught me. Now they simply need to make sure that this time they finish the job, and their ritual will be right back on track. Well done.”

Stiles winces. “... Can’t you do whatever you did to fake your death before and escape again?”

“ _No_.” Harris’ voice sounds both aggravated at Stiles’ question, and frustrated with his own answer. “I—drained myself. I had to feed a stream of magical energy to the Darach to trick them into thinking that I really was dead.”

“What, like your life force or something?” Stiles is reluctantly impressed. “—Is that why you were hiding out here in the woods?”

He feels Harris’ tension through the vibrations of their connected cuffs. “I couldn’t risk discovery. I would have been completely vulnerable to attack—as you saw. Besides,” his sigh is resigned, “even with the small amount of energy I have in reserve, I wouldn’t be able to do anything. There are sigils scratched into the handcuffs around my wrists, and carved into my forehead, blocking me from using magic.”

“ _Wait_.” Stiles is torn between being shocked, horrified, and even more impressed. He tries once more to glance over his shoulder and even though he can’t see anything, quickly turns his eyes away again. “The Darach carved something into your _forehead_? Like, into your _skin_?”

“No, Mr. Stilinski, there’s just blood running down my face and into my eyes from _nowhere_ —yes, carved into my skin!”

“Okay, okay, sorry, jeeze!” Stiles waves his fingers in their limited arc. “I guess I’m not used to villains who _carve into living people_ unless they’re the kind who turn furry and do it with claws.”

There’s a pause. “... We’re talking about someone who stabs and strangles people _to death,_ and what’s bothering you is a few lines cut just deep enough to bleed?”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles’ leg jitters, and his voice comes out as a bit of a croak. “I—don’t really like seeing blood, okay?”

Instead of sounding mocking, Harris’ voice just sounds tense. “Well, soon you won’t have to worry about seeing anything at all, because the sun will set and the Darach will be back to finish the job.”

“What about—” He’d dropped his phone when he’d been caught, so that’s long gone. Same with the pendulum and the taser holster which is now missing from his thigh. “Scott will totally come find us, and the girls! They can get here in time, right?”

Harris scoffs, but there’s less bite to it. “If it were so easy to track the Darach, don’t you think your little mutts would have found them by now? They have ways to cover their tracks, even when they’re carrying—victims.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests automatically, but his stomach sinks as he listens to the rest. “That—makes sense, unfortunately. So, the cavalry isn’t coming.”

“No.”

“That’s—great. Just great.” Stiles starts to feel around with the tips of his fingers, vigorously. The way the two pairs of cuffs are threaded together means that every time Stiles moves his hands, his fingers almost invariably end up brushing against Harris’. For a moment, Harris lets Stiles search, but finally he stretches back, stopping Stiles’ hands with his own.

“You’re not going to find anything,” he says impatiently. “Just going to make both of our arms even more sore.”

“Wha—how do you know?”

“Because, I regained consciousness faster than you did, and I already took stock of our surroundings. Unlike my students, whom you are apparently mistaking me for, I am neither unobservant nor slow.”

Stiles makes a contemptuous noise. “Alright, Sherlock freaking Holmes over there, what was in your—stock taking?”

“Judging by the water content in the soil and the loose stone, we’re probably sealed up in a cave formed by one of the overhangs in the banks of the creek in the preserve. Given the total lack of light, it’s probably magically sealed, which means we won’t be able to push our way out. They removed our phones and watches, and any other kind of usable metal; if they were that thorough, it’s incredibly unlikely they left anything else remotely helpful.”

Stiles takes a moment to twist around, trying to pat at his pockets with his forearms before he concedes that Harris is right; even the canvas belt he wore to strap the taser holster to is gone. “Wait, so, that’s it?” He glances judgmentally in what should be Harris’ direction. “Nothing obviously useful, so you’re just going to give up?”

Harris sounds more aggravated than he’s been the entire conversation. “I’m _hardly_ giving up, Stilinski. I just recognize that I have no options. And unlike you, I actually understand the meaning of the term ‘futile.’”

Stiles ignores the insult, busy with something bigger. “Wow.” He licks his lips. “Wo—w. The great Professor Adrian Harris, asshole extraordinaire, and evidently magically an asshole as well, and you’re completely stuck. You can’t do anything on your own, and so you need help.” Stiles pauses, drawing it out. “You need _my_ help.”

“You—“ Harris sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. “What are you doing?”

Stiles has been feeling along the ground again, and he stops with a noise of triumph. He starts making a vigorous back and forth motion with his hand. “I used to practice slipping out of my dad’s old cuffs—“

“Of course you did.”

“It’s been a while though—” Stiles bites at his tongue in concentration as he works. “My hands are, ah—bigger than they used to be.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Harris’ voice is dry as dust, but he’s cut off by Stiles’ exclamation of triumph.

“Aha, yeah! There we go!” Then both of them jerk as a shock travels through the cuffs, up their arms. There’s an accompanying flash of light above their hands that quickly disappears. “Oww.” Stiles flinches, blinking away the after-images. “... What the hell?”

“Stiles,” Harris demands, voice tight with controlled panic, “ _what did you do_?”

Stiles’s breath hitches. He’s still twisting at his hands, even as the cuffs send out more muscle-clenching shocks. “I—ah—was gonna dislocate my thumb to get out of the cuff, but I—needed something to lubricate—“

“... So you cut yourself with a rock, didn’t you?” It’s a statement rather than question, said through gritted teeth, and Harris’ voice has taken on a resigned finality. The shocks are increasing in intensity, but he’s holding his own hands as still as possible, so that Stiles will have something stable to pull against as he works.

“What the hell is going on?” Stiles chokes out, even as he twists and pulls, finally sliding his one hand free. Quickly he pulls his arms in front of him, bringing his injured hand up to cradle protectively against his chest.

Now Harris is the one who sounds choked. “The wards,” he forces out. “The Darach must have included one that got activated if there was blood on it.”

Stiles scoots around on his knees so he can face Harris in the dark. “I didn’t know! You didn’t _warn_ me!”

“I didn’t know what the wards scratched into the cuffs _were_ ,” Harris snaps. “I could just feel that they were there, and that I was being blocked from performing magic. My fingers aren’t dexterous enough to decipher shallow lines on something that is _binding my wrists._ ”

“Well.” Stiles is starting to sound more panicky. “It’s not shocking me anymore, so that must have been—is it still shocking _you_?” He reaches out in the darkness for where he assumes Harris is, then pulls his hand back as Harris shakes it off.

“No, they’ve stopped shocking me.” There’s the sound of labored movement, and when Stiles reaches out again, Harris is now facing Stiles, his cuffed hands in front of him, instead of behind his back.

“That’s good—“

“Because creating shocks is energy-intensive. That ward must have been meant for a short duration. Now they’re starting to tighten on me instead.”

Stiles thinks about that. “ _Tighten_? And when will they _stop_ tightening?”

“... Most likely, they won’t.”

“So they’re what, they’re just going to keep going until they _crush your freaking hands off_? While both of us are sitting right here?” Stiles attempts to suck in a deep, panicked breath, but his throat is growing distressingly tight. “ _Oh my god._ ”

“We have a bigger problem,” Harris says tightly.

“ _Bigger_? Your hands are going to be guillotined off your body by demonic handcuffs, how can there be a _bigger problem_?”

“That light,” Harris manages to say over Stiles’ increasingly rapid words. “You saw the light that flashed briefly?”

“Y—es?”

Harris grits his teeth. “That was a signal, to the Darach, that the wards were activated. Presumably, to warn him that we were trying to escape. I doubt he was—too close, he wouldn’t want to attract attention, but—“

“He’s on his way here now.” Stiles can’t swallow around the lacrosse ball-lump in his throat. “He could get here at any time.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, fuck!” Stiles turns, almost hitting his head on the low ceiling as he lunges at walls he still can’t see. But even pushing and scraping with all the strength of his uninjured right hand, the dirt enclosing them remains solid and magically immovable on all sides, just as Harris had predicted. Stiles slumps back into his original spot, fear and panic blending into agitation. “Come on, there has to be something we can _do_! This isn’t fair, I got out of the cuffs, we can’t lose _now_!”

“I’m—“ Harris cuts himself off.

Stiles pauses where he’s been yanking his right hand through his hair. “Oh my god. How tight are the cuffs now?” He finds Harris’ hands in the dark, runs his fingertips up the backs, over the sturdy wrists. The metal of the cuffs is shrinking slowly but steadily, edges already digging in to skin. “ _Oh my god_.” Stiles forces a shaky breath, and then another. “I know you said you were blocked from magic, but—you don’t have some kind of reserve of adrenaline fueled Hulk-smash energy or something, do you? If there was any time for desperate heroics—“

Holding on to Harris’ wrist like this, he can feel it as Harris jerkily shakes his head. “If I had more, if I had—enough reserves, I could force through the blocks, maybe. But not like this. Like this—it’s impossible.”

Stiles shakes his head. “But couldn’t we just recharge you somehow? Tell me there’s some kind of magical car battery, that we can give you a—supernatural jump start?”

Harris almost chokes on a half-hearted laugh. “There’s—something here, yes.”

Stiles blinks, eyes open wide as he stares futilely into the dark. “Wait—seriously? Then what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s do it!”

“I could get energy the—same way as the Darach.” Harris’ voice is somber, but his breathing is becoming more choppy. “The battery is you. I could have all the energy I needed if you were dead. Obviously,” he sounds faintly amused, “I’m not—going to do that.”

“What, but—“ Stiles presses his uninjured hand up to his eyes. “Nothing else? If I have energy, can’t I just—voluntarily give it to you or something? Without the whole dying part?”

“To get the energy from a person without—without—“ Harris hisses in pain and starts forcing words out, clipped and rapid. “The quickest, easiest way—would be a mouth-to-mouth energy exchange.”

“A—what to the what?”

“Don’t be—a _kiss_ , Stilinski, you can transfer energy through—a kiss.” Harris’ hands feel puffy under Stiles’ touch, probably swelling as circulation cuts off, as the metal of the cuffs digs in deeper. It’s impossible to know how long it’s been since the warning ward was activated, impossible to know how soon the Darach will arrive.

Given how swiftly the Darach had been able to incapacitate Stiles the first time, it’s obvious how a second encounter would go.

“ _Fine._ Fine, yes, okay, let’s.”

“You—“ Harris tries to say.

Stiles is already scooting forward, tracing his right hand up Harris’ arm in the dark, seeking a shoulder, a neck. “I hate you, you hate me, etcetera. Neither of us wants to die, and this isn’t a fate worse than death— _probably._ ” The last is mumbled to himself as his hand finds Harris’ jaw, bristly with the beginnings of a Hiding In The Woods, Pretending To Be Dead beard. His thumb accidentally brushes over Harris’ cheek and Stiles flinches as he finds it tacky with drying blood.

Cut sigils, right.

Stiles swallows, forces his voice to be steady. “You, ah, sure you know how to do this? There’s no trial run or do-overs here, this is a—one time offer, only.”

“This will weaken you,” Harris manages. “Possibly drastically. Stiles, I—“

“ _Enough,_ ” Stiles mutters to himself. They’re both about to die, probably, but Harris possibly expressing concern for him is the last fucking straw. Stiles leans forward, and with the hand cupping Harris’ jaw as a guide, about to press his mouth against lips he cannot see in the pitch dark.

“Wait.” Harris holds up his joined hands, bumping them into Stiles’ chest where Stiles is leaning forward. Stiles stops. “You need to know the risks,” Harris says, voice an urgent grimace. “It’s difficult to control how much energy I’m taking from you, especially if we’re doing this rapidly, and if I take too much—“

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says with exaggerated casualness, “if the Darach gets here first, I’m basically guaranteed to die, aren’t I? I prefer your odds.” He pauses, licks his lips. “What about risks to you?”

“To me?”

“Yeeeah, there is the whole statutory thing, and my dad is the Sheriff—though,” Stiles tilts his head, “you are missing and presumed dead. But if we both make it out of here alive, I guess I promise I won’t press charges. And if we _don’t_ both make it out of here alive—well, I probably won’t press charges then either.”

There’s a pause. Even through the obvious pain in his voice, Harris sounds hesitant. “You know I wouldn’t—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles quickly waves him off. “If we weren’t both facing certain death, there’s no way you would want to touch me in a million years.” He shrugs a shoulder, giving a little self-deprecating chuckle. “Maybe no one should want to kiss me, I mean the last person I kissed was sacrificed by the Darach, so—“ Stiles raises his gaze to where he thinks Harris’ face must be. “Let’s not take that as a precedent to follow, okay?”

“Got it,” Harris says, his voice wry.

“So...” Stiles leans forward again, putting careful pressure on where Harris’ hands have been resting against his chest. “We good? Everyone agreed this is a fucking terrible idea, but every other alternative is worse?”

“Agreed,” Harris murmurs, and his lips are right there, and then they’re pressing against Stiles’.

It’s not like any other kiss Stiles has ever had. There’s the beard, for one. There’s the fact that their mouths don’t move against each other with any kind of mutual exploration—and God no, does Stiles not want to explore anything mutually with Adrian Harris. Instead, Harris reaches up with his bound hands, numb and clumsy, and holds Stiles’ face still. It’s more a suggestion than something that has any kind of power to it, but Stiles isn’t in a rush to hinder Harris, wants this to work—needs it to work. So he lets Harris coax his mouth open—and then.

Afterwards, Stiles isn’t sure that he was even aware of what was happening. The energy transfer, presumably, but he’s not sure it’s something somebody can even be aware of, on a conscious level. Instead, there’s Harris’ mouth on his, and a sensation like when you think you see something out of the corner of your eye, but every time you try to look at it more directly, it’s gone. Then Harris pulls away, saying, “Stilinski—Stilinski!” over and over, and shaking him, and Stiles gasps. He hadn’t even realized he’d quit breathing.

“Did—did it work?” He’s dizzy, can’t hold a line of thought. His brain keeps—tripping, over the concerned look Harris is giving him, and oh, Stiles can see Harris now because Harris is—glowing?

“Fucking—hold on,” Harris mutters, and then he’s tugging at his wrists, and the handcuffs are disintegrating, falling apart like wet clay.

“You look—“ Stiles laughs, because everything is funny, and he feels—drunk. Like he’s about to fall over. “Whoops!”

Harris catches him, cursing. “I—we need to get out of here.”

The walls around them all look the same, and Stiles’ lips are tingling. He reaches up, trying to touch them, laughing. When he looks up again, it’s no longer just the glow from Harris’ body, but the golden light of late afternoon sun filtering in through the hole Harris has pushed to their freedom.

“Come on—“ Harris drags Stiles forward, pulling him out of their low prison, up into the light.

“We did it!” Stiles has one floating, vertiginous moment to notice how much taller Harris seems, as the older man scans their surroundings. “Hey,” Stiles tries. “Don’t leave m—“

“I’ve got you,” is the last thing he hears as an arm wraps around him and he passes out.

**Author's Note:**

> Dubcon/Noncon elements: Stiles and Harris are trapped and about to be killed by the Darach. Neither of them want to, but they agree that kissing to share magical energy is the only chance they have to escape alive. They both discuss their lack of options and the risks and consequences. 
> 
> Title is from Dig My Grave by They Might Be Giants. Comments and concrit are welcome.
> 
> I'm also [peardita](http://peardita.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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